Obfuscations

((photo by B.E.B.))

Someone less inclined to polarizing obfuscations hath put into motion a quizzical, shoulder shrugging, eye roll, toward a gray piece of fiction with the gravity to become a ..thing //chtzz.. Being versus non being The ability to snap into focus an image as concrete as the forces acting upward upon a busy mans feet...in the street... I repeat .. Being versus non-being. //fizz... I've been here before. A familiar dish. The plain spaghetti... Caveat free and smug about it. The words themselves hold to their impression like a lead brick. The opposition being me.. Has the will to fire up the smelter and go to work. The air gets thick and secrecy becomes key. This kind of mental work is better done in silence. Like the blacksmith or the watchmaker the results must manifest themselves in purchase. Day one.czz// Persona. //. Unopposed and running mouth first into the maze of misfortune with plenty of expression. Religion by yoga instructors by physics teachers and men with mustaches alike. All convinced by the spell that binds them. Existence is futile. There exists a fence in a field. High quality two strand topped with barbed wire. The grass is my focus more so than the being /non being fence proposed throughout my paradoxical youth. czz//... Here... Here the grass is unquestionably greener. The blacksmith and the watchmaker would run me out of town for this kind if inquiry. Treason for sure.... A hanging offense to the Sunday man.// To be or not to be. // No. // To see or not to see. // No still. But what? fzzt. tT.// We are bought and sold by the currency of our personage and the lie persists through birth and death. The enemy of your enemy is your friend on this desert plain. The truth is a contortionist that pleads in unnatural directions. Surely our minds must break. This is the work of a stupid stupid man. And so the echo goes for I have broken ranks and disturbed the silence that holds me and folds me into the person I seem to me. Obfuscation and plain spaghetti and dodging the question. Looking for trouble a lone white blood cell challenged the body itself. "By the time you read this I will be dead" he says while scanning the crowd for interest. A good host always has ice on the ready... One hand hangs lifelessly on the land we call the other side and it's ghost has an errand to run. Stepping over the line again and again and the sound is something of a heart murmur. I might pass out. I might wake up. I might take these bolt cutters on a cutting spree and plant some seeds of malcontent wherever some mind is fertile and brave. Again the price is high for those without humor. The grace period for putting the world together is nearly over and no it's not fair. It never was. What was good was a game and it had to be enough. Enterprising young souls make victory knots in a little fabric of their own. Who am I to challenge them. Thus is the war of words that plagues my mind and it makes me want a third thing to be true. A hyper being to stand and clank the glass of attention. The silence informs me to turn on all the lights and lock the door. These ghosts and me and the late night T.V. B.E.B.